


I Am The Man (we both couldn't stand)

by nekobasu



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Assexual Damien, Damien (The Bright Sessions) is a Mess, Gen, I´m not sure where this is going, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 16:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekobasu/pseuds/nekobasu
Summary: "Hey, Mark. It's me again. Damien, that is. But you already knew that. Yeah. Well, anyway, you won't believe what my shitty therapist told me to do today."orDamien called Mark once he felt he was doing better at the whole 'how to people' thing, and just couldn't find it in himself to stop. Even if all he ever got was the voicemail.





	I Am The Man (we both couldn't stand)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song The Hearse (Stripped), by Matt Maeson.  
This is actually the second format I planned for an idea I had, after binge listening to tbs, and I wrote it before the first one..... because.  
Tell me what you think! I don't know if it's worth it to keep working on this.
> 
> Also, I kept the Mature and Multi tags because relationships and sexual interactions will be mentioned (or at least I plan to), but they are NOT the focus and will appear as flashbacks or in conversations (?). Graphic descriptions of violence and rape? Same stuff.  
Along the way, I may change this if I see that it's due.
> 
> And I took some small liberties with the timeline  
┐(‘～`；)┌

Damien was a mess, sitting inside his bathtub grooming a bottle with one hand, his phone on the other. There was no alternative way of putting it; he was a disgruntled, ugly mess. A sorry excuse of a human being. And that was before he started drinking! Or maybe it _was_ the alcohol.

The ex-atypical watched as the faucet kept _drip-drip-drip-_fucking dripping nonstop, and it annoyed him, but not enough to make him want to get up and shut the valve.

“Want, heh.” Damien laughed to no one, his voice echoing on the tiles and slapping right back at him.

Damien felt like that kernel in the popcorn bag, the one that didn't pop; nobody notices it until they bite it, and when they do, they get pissed at it for its very existence. 'Cause obviously, how _dare_ it not pop? Well, maybe it didn't want to. Maybe all the others should just not pop either, or piss off. Why should he be the wrong one? Who was it that said corn should be popped anyway? Big douche, that's who they were. Such a stupid fucking idea.

Stupid.

Oh. He was getting sidetracked. He had a mission here. A very important one, at that. He just kept forgetting where the call button was placed; it wasn't his fault, the damn thing wouldn't stop moving. It was all the alcohol's fault. All this... Bottled liquid´s, which label he couldn't care to read right now, fault. It was-No, damn it, Dr. Ian told him not to put the blame on objects, as they were _"i__nanimate _objects_, Damien, how can they be at fault”_, and ended up broken during his _“fits of self-righteous anger”_. Was alcohol an object, though? Its container certainly was an object. He could throw the bottle at the wall; it would make a nice bang... But it would not solve anything. Or so Dr. Ian said.

It had been a tortuous, long, depressing year since Mark had thrown him out of town. _"Take your shit and go, Damien"_ he said, with that ridiculous voice of his. _"I hate you, Damien"_ he also said. _"You don't even want to be better, Damien"_ he accused.

Well, Damien was nothing if not stubborn. Maybe he would become a better person just out of spite and throw it in Dr. B's face. Hers and Mark’s. Yeah. A year was enough to become a good person. It was. Wasn't it? Dr. Ian had mentioned the word "progress" during their last session, in one of his infinite monologues. He had; Damien was sure. It had to count for something.

Though he had also said Damien shouldn’t contact any of them ever again, because_ “don’t you think you already did enough to those people, Damien?”_

The ex-atypical tried to drink from his bottle of... Something, again, thinking of erasing the memories’ sore taste from his throat with something sorer, but his lips met the hard-thin corner of his cellphone. Oh, yeah. Mark. Maybe he had changed his number, after all this time. Or maybe he (they) thought, as Dr. Ian certainly hoped, he would make the sound choice of letting the sleeping dogs lie, if only to save face.

He put his hopes on the latter.

It ringed once, twice, three times. Then some more. Damien was ready to give up, not deeming the try worth his time anymore, when the call connected.

_"You've reached Mark! I'm probably away at the moment, or maybe I just didn't care to answer your call. Leave a message!" _

He didn't breathe for a few moments, hesitation eating away at him. This was a terrible idea. Why hadn't Dr. Ian persuaded him not to do this?! Damn this was fucked up. What could he say that´d justify- explain- _beg-_ Good, now he was hyperventilating. On the verge of a panic attack, Damien managed to push the words through his gritted teeth.

"I'm on rehab."_ a shaky breath, the lukewarm bottle clicked as he pressed it against his forehead. "_No. Fuck, shit, I already messed this up. I'm not on rehab, I'm not a teenage junkie for God's sake. I. Uh. I'm on therapy." 

He ran his free hand through his hair, breathing raggedly, fingers catching slightly in between the greasy curls of chocolate brown hair.

"Real therapy, not that unprofessional shit your sister provides. At least I think Dr. Ian is professional… He certainly gives that "strictly business" vibe, all with wearing suits to the appointments and whatnot." _he choked on a low laugh, his throat not agreeing with all the alcohol he had ingested in the 3 hours it took to gather the courage to call. "_He says- he says I'm making progress." 

"You hear that, Mark? I, Damien, whom you deemed irredeemable and pushed out of the fucking _city_, am making progress. I'm learning how to people and there’s nothing you can do to stop me; you thought I couldn’t do it?! Well, here it is!" 

He smiled and laughed and screamed. He cried.

"I-I'm so tired, Mark… I didn’t know- I swear, Mark, I swear! I didn’t realize it was- I thought- I-"

Damien ended the message and threw his phone across the bathroom, out of it, and didn’t look to know where it fell. His exhales were coming roughly out of his mouth, too hot _toohot toohottoo-_ on his throat. The inhales felt too cold_ cold coldcold-_ All of it was burning and there was no way out no relief no rest. He was alone. He was useless.

Damien wanted.

Not anything in particular, he just wanted to want. He wanted his power back, his identity. It took months, but most days now it seemed he was almost okay, he was fine, he could go about his day as if he was just like those around him. _But not today not now he couldn’t he felt _wrong_ he couldn’t breathe-_

He scrambled out of the bathtub and almost fell to his face. He crawled away from the bathroom and looked frantically for his phone, hands and arms and torso and legs shaking. Everything was shaking. Damien managed to breathe just a little easier after he found it, but did not waste time before clicking the only other contact there besides Mark. It took only two rings for them to pick up.

"D-Doctor Ian..?" 

_"Hello, Damien, I was just going to call you. Happy birthday." _

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Grammar mistakes? English is not my first language so please let me know!  
Any comments at all are appreciated (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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